


Even If Things End Up a Bit Too Heavy (We'll All Float On)

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a snowy night, and Peter gets sick driving home from out of state. Neal steps up, woobies are comforted, and a relationship milestone is reached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even If Things End Up a Bit Too Heavy (We'll All Float On)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song "Float On" by Modest Mouse.

“This is crazy,” Peter commented for the third time in fifteen minutes. “I think the wipers are frozen.”

“Maybe we should have stayed in Easton?” Neal commented. They were driving back to the city after investigating a lead in an identity theft ring case in PA. The snow that had been forecast had started as sleet, and they were inching carefully along I-78 somewhere in the ass crack of Northwestern Jersey. Visibility was terrible, trucks passed them going way too fast for Neal’s liking, and cars were beginning to slide down even the slightest banked turns and exit ramps of the highway. The only good thing about it was that Peter had thought to grab an SUV from the motor pool instead of taking the Taurus.

“Yeah, maybe,” Peter agreed, leaning forward and peering out into the darkness, as if proximity would improve visibility. The sleet made tic-tic-tic sounds as it hit the windshield.

They made decent progress for about another two miles when they had to come to a stop due to the traffic build-up ahead of them.

“We may never get home,” Neal sighed. Peter grunted in reply.

Traffic inched forward, stopping and starting at intervals.

“Watch it!” Neal said suddenly, as Peter nearly back-ended the car in front of him.

“Crap, sorry,” Peter muttered. He continued to stare listlessly ahead of them.

Neal looked at him closely. “You OK, partner? You’ve barely spoken since we got in the car.”

Peter looked at him, and Neal noticed for the first time how drawn his face was, how pale. “I dunno.” He swallowed and his gaze drifted downwards to the gear shift.

Neal reached out and felt the side of Peter’s face with the back of his hand, then his forehead. “You’re burning up! So I guess that cold you didn’t have this morning is now the flu?”

Peter nodded miserably.

“Hey!” Neal exclaimed as Peter once again nearly slid into the car in front of them.

He made Peter pull the car over, then got out and walked over to the driver’s side. Opening up the door, he looked at Peter meaningfully, but Peter’s fevered brain was not so quick on the uptake. “Scootch over,” Neal ordered, waving his hands forward. Peter twisted his body, dragged his butt over the gear box and sat heavily in the passenger seat, then pulled his long legs up and over awkwardly and settled them down on the floor. Neal got in and looked at him; he’d stayed slumped half on his side and hadn’t even attempted to straighten himself out. Neal slammed the door shut and put the car into gear.

“You wanna lay back? It’ll be more comfortable,” he suggested to Peter.

“OK.” Peter pushed his foot against the floor mat, it slipped and he rapped his knee against the glove box. “Ow.” The car was stopped, so Neal threw it into park again and quickly turned toward Peter, easing his arm beneath his shoulders to straighten him out, then reaching down his lower back to try to untangle his overcoat and settle it around him.

When he’d done wrestling with Peter – who lay listlessly in the seat, not helping – he sat back in his seat and pulled his seatbelt on, told Peter to do the same. “Reach down and push the seat back more. Try to lie down, OK?”

Peter nodded and did as he was bidden, settling down against the seat with a moan.

“See if you can get some sleep,” Neal said, and felt Peter’s forehead again. He really was burning up, Neal realized. He hoped it wasn’t anything serious, because it would be hours before they would reach the city, much less Brooklyn.

\----

Two hours later and they’d progressed maybe ten miles; traffic was still bumper to bumper, and Neal passed enough disabled cars in the shoulder of the highway to be disturbing. He had the radio on NPR with the sound down low, listening to a weather forecast that didn’t offer much good news. The sleet had already turned into snow, and while Neal was a competent driver, he wasn’t all that confident in wintry weather.

He realized he was hearing a low clicking sound, and hoped it wasn’t something wrong with the car; he didn’t like the idea of spending the night at the side of the road. He turned the sound on the radio down and determined that the noise was coming from the passenger seat. Glancing over, he saw that Peter was shivering, his teeth were chattering, and he had a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow. When the traffic stopped briefly, Neal threw the car into park once again and shimmied out of his own coat. He draped it over Peter, who grabbed the sleeve and hugged it to his chest as if it were a beloved stuffed animal. Neal palmed the top of his sweaty head lovingly and went back to focusing on the drive.

\----

“Ungh,” Peter said.

“You’re awake!”

“Ehhhhhh,” he moaned.

“Aww.”

Peter was huddled on his side, Neal’s coat clutched around him, only visible from the eyes up. “Where are we?”

“We just passed through Clinton.”

“Clinton N-J.”

“Bill Clinton.”

“George Clinton.”

“Heh. P-Funk, nice. Bootsie Collins.”

“Joan Collins.”

“Tom Collins. I could use a cocktail.”

“I could use some water,” Peter said. “I’m so thirsty.”

“You’re probably a little dehydrated. It’s been a while since lunch. Just a sec.” Neal pulled into the shoulder and put it in park. He stretched his upper body back between the seats, extending his right foot so that he could reach his bag on the back seat, his left hiked over the right slightly as he reached.

“Wow, you’re bendy,” Peter marveled.

“Got it!” Neal said triumphantly, settling back into the seat and plopping the bag onto his lap. He opened it up and produced two small bottles of orange juice. “Snagged ‘em from breakfast this morning,” he explained as he cracked the top on one of them and handed it to Peter.

Peter drank the juice down like he was a man in a desert. “Aren’t you having any?” he observed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nah, I’ll leave it for you. You want it now?”

Peter nodded. Neal handed it over and Peter’s hand covered his as he took it, lingering. “Thanks, Neal,” he said, a smile on his lips that was showing more than gratitude for a 10-ounce bottle of OJ.

Neal resisted the impulse to chuck him on the chin.

\----

“Hey, El. What? No, he’s about the same. Sleeping. I just thought I’d call and let you know where we are. What’s a Pluckemin?” Neal laughed. “Pluck-e-min…. I don’t know if I’m saying it right…. Well, if I’m ever through here again, we’ll see if it’s the eyebrow tweezers capital of the world or not…. No, no I’m fine. Tired. What? I don’t know, it’ll be hours yet….Yeah. We’ll see you soon, I hope. ‘Bye.”

\----

“Where are we now?” Peter had thrown Neal’s coat off himself and was loosening his tie and the first few buttons on his shirt.

“Last sign said something about Warren.” Peter didn’t answer. “Warren Buffett,” Neal prompted. Peter sighed. “Hey, you OK?”

“I don’t think I’ve felt this bad in a loooong time,” Peter told him, resting his right elbow on the door and letting his hand hang, suspended, swaying with the movement of the car over the snowy ruts on the road surface.

Neal’s forehead creased with worry. For Peter to admit he felt bad, it must be serious. He felt Peter’s forehead again. Still very warm, but if it was worse, he had no way of knowing. “Do you want me to pull over? Find a hospital?”

“No, not that bad. Just bad-bad.” He chuckled. “When I was a kid, my mom set up these levels of sickness, to gauge whether we should stay home from school or not. Bad-bad meant you had a fever and you had to go to see the doctor. I always lied, because every time I got taken to the doctor’s, it seemed they wanted to stick needles into me. Awful was the worst.”

“So, not awful yet? That’s good. My mom used to make me Neal’s Special Soup when I was sick.”

“What was so special about it?”

“Extra carrots. I loved carrots. Bugs Bunny was my favorite cartoon.”

“Somehow, that explains a lot.” Peter shifted in his seat, turned on his side to face Neal. “My mom would tell the most horrific stories. It wasn’t until I was older that I figured out they were the original Brothers Grimm fairy tales. I loved them, I couldn’t get enough of the gruesome ways the bad guys were punished.”

“Somehow, that explains a lot too,” Neal said wryly. “Think you might sleep a little more? Always makes me feel better.”

“Yeah. Good idea.” Peter sighed and closed his eyes.

\----

Neal peered at a sign that indicated that New York was only 45 miles away, but never did that distance seem so long as on this interminable drive. It was already past midnight and he had to pee.

Peter sighed in his sleep, shifted, and sighed again. Neal chanced a glance in his direction, and he could see him twitching in his seat, the muscles in his face creating expressions that were subdued but readable. He wondered what he was dreaming about.

“Up,” Peter said.

“What?”

“Not up,” he muttered.

Neal had never known Peter to talk in his sleep, so he glanced over again to be sure he was still sleeping. He reached over and put his hand on Peter’s forearm. “You OK, buddy?” he said.

Peter opened his eyes and stared at the radio for a minute. He turned his head.

“You were dreaming,” Neal pointed out.

Peter sighed and rubbed his nose. “Are we floating?” he asked, his voice scratchy and very quiet.

“No.”

“It feels like we’re floating.”

“Nope, got our four wheels squarely on the ground. We were floating earlier, but I got it all under control.”

Peter didn’t react to Neal’s joke, and seemed to accept the information at face value, nodding. Neal reached out and placed his cool hand on Peter’s flushed cheek. “You OK?” he asked, his worry ratcheted up a few notches by Peter’s reaction.

Peter blinked, shook his head as if to clear it and looked up at Neal. “What?”

“Everything OK?”

He nodded.

“How are you feeling?”

Peter paused, thought over his answer. “Awful,” he confessed.

“Well, we’re coming up on Newark soon, so we’re almost home,” Neal told him. “You want a story?”

“Yes.”

“OK.” Neal thought for a minute and then began, “Once upon a time in ancient China, there were five brothers and they all looked exactly alike…”

\----

It was after 3:00 am when they finally arrived home. The streets were deserted and largely unplowed, though at least the snow had stopped falling, and Neal was lucky enough to find a spot only a block away. He helped Peter out of the car and over piles of plowed snow and the two of them slipped and struggled up the street in their dress shoes.

Peter was leaning heavily on Neal by the time they got up the front steps, and Neal fumbled with Peter’s keys as he opened the door. He led Peter to the couch, and when he knelt down in front of him to remove his wet shoes and socks, Peter let himself fall sideways, his head buried into a decorative pillow.

“Hey, come on, I want to get you to bed.”

“No bed,” Peter said weakly. “Head swimming. Too many stairs.”

“Fine, let me get you some pajamas at least.” Neal tiptoed up the stairs and somehow, even with Satchmo at his heels, he managed to retrieve a pair of pajamas and some blankets from the bedroom without waking Elizabeth. He next visited the bathroom where he found Tylenol, a thermometer and some cold tablets and made his way silently back down the stairs. Peter was already sleeping when he arrived. He pushed aside the ubiquitous bowl of fruit that somehow never went bad on the Burke's coffee table and deposited the bedding and pajamas on top. Then he went to get a glass of water from the kitchen for Peter.

He woke Peter and helped him get changed, then made him take the pills and drink all of the water. Finally, he tucked him in and slid the thermometer between Peter’s lips before he went to the kitchen to refill the glass. When he returned, Peter was peering up at him, his eyes bright with fever. The thermometer beeped and Neal took a look. “103. Not good. Let’s hope that Tylenol kicks in soon.”

Peter moaned miserably and snuggled up under the blanket in a fetal position. “Will you stay here with me?” he asked.

“Of course.” Neal had been planning on heading up to the guest room – he didn’t want to wake Elizabeth – but Peter seemed uncharacteristically needy and he didn’t want to abandon him.

Peter smiled and closed his eyes.

Neal pulled the big arm chair close and eased himself down into it. He was exhausted and didn’t think he’d have any trouble falling asleep in the thing. He closed his own eyes with a sigh and settled into the chair.

“Neal?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“Thanks for everything today.”

“No problem. Get some sleep, OK?”

Peter yawned, nodded. “I will. Thanks.”

“You said that already,” Neal kidded, but Peter didn’t notice.

“Love you,” Peter sighed.

Neal’s eyes flew open and he sat upright in the chair, looking over at Peter intently, but he had already fallen back to sleep. Had Peter said what Neal thought he’d heard? If so, it was the first time any one of them had made that declaration, and Neal didn’t know what to make of it.

If he was truthful with himself – and he always was – he largely didn’t know what to make of his relationship with Peter and Elizabeth. He was happy to be with them, but a part of him didn’t want to believe the whole thing was real somehow. He swore to himself he would not get emotionally invested, that he could have fun with them while it lasted. But deep down, he knew he had developed feelings for both of them– had had feelings from the beginning – but it was all still very new, and he didn’t know if those feelings were reciprocated.

And here was proof that maybe they were, and it simultaneously thrilled and alarmed him. He shook his head and smiled. Sleep was a long time coming.

\----

Neal woke to the sound of coffee beans being ground. Peter was still sleeping, lying on his back with the blanket tangled around his long legs, so Neal got up, stretched and walked through to the kitchen. “Morning,” he greeted Elizabeth groggily.

She crossed the room to give him a kiss. “What time did you both get in last night?”

“After 3:00.” He yawned. “What time is it?”

“7:00. Sorry if I woke you.”

He rubbed his neck. “Probably not a bad thing – my neck’s killing me from sleeping in that chair.”

“Awww. How’s Peter?”

Neal shrugged. “He’s still sleeping. He had a temperature of 103 last night. If it isn’t lower this morning, he should go to the doctor. I think I left the Tylenol in here.” He looked around for the medicine, intending to take it to Peter.

El smiled and squeezed his hand. “You’ve already done so much. I’ll do that. You have some coffee and I’ll be back in a bit to make us some eggs.”

She left the room and he poured himself a mug of coffee, crossing over to the windows to survey the snow accumulation in daylight. It looked like at least 10 inches had fallen, but the sun was shining brightly and he looked forward to taking Satchmo out in it later. El returned to the kitchen to make breakfast, and when he returned to the living room, Peter was gone. Neal surmised he’d gone up to rest in his own bed.

Feeling nature calling, Neal set his coffee down on the dining table and trudged up the stairs. As he was headed back down, he heard Peter calling his name, and he wandered over to the open door to the Burke's bedroom.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“A little better. El said my temperature’s down to 101.”

“That’s great. You had me a little freaked out last night. For a second there, I thought you might be hallucinating.”

“For a second there, I think I was,” Peter said unironically.

Neal smiled and turned to leave.

“Neal?”

Neal turned back, eyebrows raised expectantly. Peter patted the bed beside him and he went and sat down.

“I wanted to thank you for last night.”

“You already did, Peter.”

“It bears repeating. If I had been alone, I don’t know what would have happened. I was lucky to have you there.”

Neal ducked his head, suddenly feeling awkward.

“And there’s something else, Neal,” Peter said. He looked down at his hands as he talked. “I meant what I said last night.” He reached out his hand and put it over Neal’s where it rested in his lap. “I’m falling in love with you.”

Neal looked up at him, surprised. He had assumed all would be forgotten in the cold rationality of daylight, had already resigned himself to that fact. This was more than he thought would be possible.

Peter looked into his eyes. “El too. We’ve talked about this a lot lately. I’m not sure what your feelings are, but we’d like to take this relationship to another level, if you’re into it – are you into it?”

Neal’s smile lit up his entire face. “I, uh, I think I can be into it.”

“Good,” Peter said, nodding and smiling himself. “But now, I think I have to lie down, I feel like crap.”

“Awful?”

“Nah, just bad-bad. But getting better, thanks to you.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
